a single person in the world is going to care.”
Martin winked, then carried Sara out of the room.
Cindy began to cry. Tyrone had no idea what to do. So he reached through the bars with his left hand, held Cindy’s, and squeezed.
“I care,” he said.
But for some reason that made her cry even harder.
Sara opened her eyes. Her head was muddled, thoughts groggy, her brain floating in that state between sleep and awareness.
Then she remembered Martin stabbing her with that needle, and all at once she was on full alert, processing her situation. She was on her side, on an old cot that smelled like mold and dried sweat. Sara tried to sit up, but discovered she was hogtied; hands behind her back, the same rope snaking down her legs and securing her ankles.
Sara looked around. She was in a room, well lit and relatively warm, with a lingering scent of lemon air freshener masking something rank. The gray stone walls told her she was still in the prison, and the nearest wall had shackles hanging from it by a large metal bolt. The wall was covered with reddish-brown stains.
Near the far wall was a wooden dresser with eight drawers. Next to that was a table. Sara craned her neck to see what was on top, and saw a variety of power tools, including a portable drill with a large bit.
On the other side of the room, there was an old wooden chest, a wheelchair, and a pegboard, on which a wicked assortment of knives and saws hung.
“Good morning, sunshine.”
Martin walked into view. He looked happier than he had in a long time.
“Martin, what’s—”
His hand lashed out, hard and fast, slapping Sara on her right cheek and rocking her head back. Sara felt the blood rush to her face, then the inevitable sting.
“Don’t be stupid, Sara. You’ve figured it out by now.”
Sara took a moment, until she was sure she could speak without breaking down. This betrayal was so unexpected, so absolute, she felt she had to make sense of it.
“Six years ago, Joe went missing. You were with him, on his boat. You came here.”
“Keep going.”
“Plincer got you both. The cannibals brought you to him.”
“Lester got us, actually. Back then there weren’t nearly as many of the ferals, and they weren’t organized.”
Martin pulled up a folding chair, set it up near the bed.
“Did you know it was Plincer’s Island?” Sara’s voice was quavering.
“No. What I said in my campfire story was true. Joe and I and six others. Two friends of his, and four women.” He sat down. “Did you really think I was faithful all these years?”
Sara said nothing.
“Incredible. Either I’m that good, or you’re that naive. One of the women, the one I was fucking, actually did get seasick. And we did beach the boat. And the cannibals did attack. Joe and I got away, but Lester found us. Took us back to the doc.”
Martin rubbed his eyes. They were tinged with red, like they always got without his Goniosol medication. The holes in his cheeks had stitches in them.
“Plincer made you evil,” she stated.
“That’s not quite how it works. The procedure enhances the parts of the brain that process aggression. The doctor simply enlarged these portions, making violent acts not only more appealing, but necessary. Sort of like the sex drive, except this is the violence drive.”
Martin lashed out again, slapping her harder this time. Sara’s cheek burned.
“Doing that to you, it gave me a huge rush. I can feel the serotonin spike, my dopamine receptors feasting on it. Better than any high I’ve ever known. And especially sweet, since I’ve wanted to do that to you almost since the day we married.”
Sara couldn’t help the tears now, but she managed to keep from sobbing.
“The orange ribbons on the trees…”
Martin nodded. “That was me. After I did my disappearing act at the campsite, I changed the ribbons to lead everyone to the prison. But those feral fuckers got the jump on me. I was so caught up in playing Mr. Nice Guy Martin, telling scary stories, I forgot my gun in my backpack. You really did save my life, Sara. Allow me to thank you for that.”
He hit her again, this time with a closed fist. Sara had been expecting it, though, and turned her head in time, so his knuckles met the top of her skull.
“Bitch,” he said, shaking his hand and then blowing on his knuckles. “I’d feel that if I wasn’t on painkillers. I’m going to make you pay for that.”
Sara retreated into her caregiver role, summoning up a bit of anger and righteous indignation. “Where’s Laneesha and Georgia?”
“Plincer gave Laneesha to Subject 33. He’s had her for a while now. I doubt there’s very much left of her. He’s got some sort of device. Personally, it gives me the creeps.”
“And Georgia?”
“Bad girl, that Georgia. We both know she was faking her remorse. I think she was hiding more than that. We’re taking good care of her.”
“Martin,” Sara tried to put all of her feelings into her voice. “These are our kids. You have to help them.”
“We never had kids, Sara. None of them wanted to grow inside of you. These kids are a bunch of social miscreants. Always have been. Always will be. I’ve been doing society a favor, taking them out of the gene pool all these years.”
Sara didn’t like this conversation at all, but she especially didn’t like the turn it just took. “What are you talking about, Martin?”
Martin leaned in close, smiling. “Do you really think we’ve had eleven runaways since we opened the Center?”
Sara narrowed her eyes. “What did you do, Martin?”
He stood, walking over to the dresser. Keeping his eyes on Sara, he opened the top drawer.
“Remember Cheerese Graves? One of our first court-appointed cases at the Center. Also our first runaway.”
Martin reached into the drawer. Sara didn’t want to watch, but she couldn’t turn away. He pulled out what looked like a brown shirt. But then he held it up, letting it unroll to full length.
Sara gagged, throwing up on the cot mattress.
“Not my best work,” Martin said. “Skinning isn’t easy. Especially when the person is still alive. All that flinching and bleeding. That’s why there are all the tears on this one. Take a look.”
Martin tossed the skin across the room. It glided, almost like a kite, then landed on Sara.
The hair was still attached, and it fell on Sara’s chest. She shook it away, and it slid across her neck. The texture was stiff, rough, not unlike burlap, and it carried an odor of salt and beef jerky. Gravity took the hide over the edge of the bed, and Sara tried to twist away from it, watching as the legs and feet, complete with toenails, fell onto the floor.
“Poorly done. I know. But I got better, as time went on. Here’s Jenna Hamilton.”
Martin tossed another skin at her. “And Rich Ardmore.” He threw that, too.
Sara managed to dodge the first, squirming backward on the cot, but Rich landed directly on her face. She screamed, shaking her head back and forth, able to see Martin through a hole that was actually Rich’s mouth.
Martin tossed another at her.
“Here’s Miranda Sudan.” The skin landed on Sara’s legs. “And remember Henry Perez, liked to start fires? I gave him a nice, charred finish.”
Sara freed herself of Rich, only to have Henry smack her in the head. He smelled like burned bacon. She managed to scooch back into the corner of the bed and get onto her knees. The skins piled up around her like
